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7:44 p.m. - November 01, 2002
Remember this one, Jason
I'm not one much for recaps or blow-by-blow descriptions similar to Madden or the Durants yet recognize brevity is my friend and yours.

For some time--monthsweeksdaysminutessecondsyear--I've been thinking of death. My own. The outer veneer part of me scoffs at suicidal ideation but on the inside, I admit it partially, reserving a minute amount of self-preservation. It isn't that I eyed razors or began parking in the garage to get a feel for things, but I would think about how quickly, how preferable, how desirable in fact, to be in an auto wreck, the bystander struck while crossing the street, the one who slips and falls. I'd think about these things driving on the freeway, laying in bed, staring at the computer.

I didn't want to write about this in my journal and my self-imposed isolation, both physical and mental, made my outlook bleak and these thoughts more entertaining. I don't understand what pushes one over the edge between here and elsewhere, but I recognize the appeal.

So I went camping, to think. To clear my head. To do something. To think it all out. Sitting on the bluffs or the beach where thankfully I was alone, I felt--realized-understood--accepted--believed--that there is more I want. I want to learn how to dance. To join a choir. To laugh and not care if people notice. To show myself to me and others. To hike more often. To write letters. Make friends. Renew old friendships. Accept imperfection. Trust. That's what I want, to trust.

Maybe the shell cracked a bit, hairline, but the promise is evident.

Perhaps I'm all talk, energetic after being in solitude and icy water and curt breezes, the high after a marathon, the optimism of adrenaline. But truthfully, I cannot think of another low similar to the one I've been in. This was rock bottom and the view wasn't pleasant and I've had enough of it.

Tomorrow, I'm inviting myself over to a friend's house. I've declined his invitations for months and I will play Nintendo and laugh at Mario and whatever other games have appeared in the ten years since I last played a videogame and I will not feel self-conscious or immature or worry about needing to accomplish. I do not have to prove my worth in terms of output or money in the bank. That is what I said to the ocean; it's about time.

I am not going to Utah for the conference, preferring to visit family. Mal, rain check. Bathsheba, I will be in town the week of Thanksgiving; can I invite you on a road trip to Portland after we take a ferry ride? There are a few things I'd like to pick up at Powell's and I can think of nothing I'd like better than spending several hours alone with you.

Hard work ahead.

 

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